


Solstice

by Sunless_sea



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Robin's Hair, Summer, Swans, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Winter, Young Strike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2019-11-17 13:30:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18099455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunless_sea/pseuds/Sunless_sea
Summary: A new chapter! A brief summer daydream, featuring swans and ice cream and sunshine. To follow the brief vignette of midwinter with Strike and Robin. And hair plaiting. And cold and warmth.





	1. Midwinter’s Day

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @LulaIsAKitten for the subtle prompt!

“In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” – Albert Camus

It was extraordinarily windy outside the lit office. The gale seemed to howl through every crack in the battened-down windows and Robin observed to Strike that it was like being in a particularly precarious nest. It felt every bit the darkest evening of the year. They were standing in the outer office, getting ready to brave the short walk to the Tottenham. Strike had only his ordinary, black overcoat but Robin was bundling herself up in coat and large, hand-knitted scarf.  
“We’re only off to the pub, not the arctic,” Strike commented.   
“You’ll be sorry when you can’t feel your nose,” said Robin, undeterred, rummaging around in her bag for a pair of mittens.  
Strike smiled and said under his breath, “I feel warmer just looking at you.”  
Robin looked up quickly, then down again, setting the mittens on the desk in an effort to hide her flaming cheeks. 

Thinking of how the wind would blow it into her face (and looking for something to do, to avoid having to face Strike) she began plaiting her hair. Strike observed, as he buttoned his coat, “I’m always amazed you can do that behind your back.”  
Robin looked round, sure he was taking the piss. “Cormoran, are you telling me you can’t do a plait?”  
“No,” said Strike, breezily, “Never learnt.”  
“You could, if you ever let your hair grow long enough,” said Robin. Unbidden, she saw an image of Strike as a teenager with shoulder-length locks, and grinned.  
“Seriously,” said Strike, also smiling, “I can’t do it at all.”  
“Come off it,” said Robin, laughing now. “You can recite Latin, piece together clues that leave the Met scratching their greasy heads, but you can’t do a plait? Didn’t you ever do it for Lucy?”  
“If you think Lucy would let me anywhere near her hair you’ve not been paying attention,” Strike replied.  
“Well, it’s a gap in your education,” said Robin, stoutly. “I’ll teach you.” She began undoing her progress, and shook out her long hair behind her. 

Perhaps it was the mention of an education, but Strike suddenly felt like a vastly overgrown schoolboy. He approached Robin, who sat in the office chair and had spun so that her back was to him. Strike stared at her hair and, sounding (even to himself) like his Aunt Joan, said, “It’s gotten so long!”  
Robin giggled and began dividing her hair into sections. “So, you split it into three, like this, and try and get them equal in size. Then you just put one over the other, alternating.” She demonstrated, and Strike watched. “Try.” She held out a section. His hands were very close to the back of her neck. He took another section and tried clumsily to imitate Robin’s deft movements. Parts of each section kept slipping away from him. Of course, he was forced to regather them (and who could blame him if his fingertips brushed her shoulders in the process?). He felt sure he could have learnt the skill much more quickly if only he had been able to focus on braiding the hair, rather than on the hair’s owner.

After a few botched attempts and some choice swear words he got the hang of it, keeping the strands pinned at all times with one hand or another, and stroking her hair into smooth sections. When he got near the end Robin held out a hair tie and he secured his creation.

“Full marks, for a first attempt!” said Robin, feeling behind her head before tucking her hair into the collar of her coat. They left the office, joking about the freezing weather, and once they were on Denmark street, she took Strike’s arm. She might plausibly have done so to avoid being blown off course, the wind was so strong. Strike’s head was bowed against the onslaught, so she couldn’t be sure, but Robin thought she saw him smiling.

Once they’d been blown the familiar warmth of the pub, Robin fetched their usual. She rejoined Strike at the table and began peeling off her many layers, and undoing the plait. “Oi!” said Strike, in mock annoyance, “That’s all my hard work, Ellacott!”  
Robin laughed, running her fingers through her hair to free the separate strands. “You didn’t think you could get away with just doing it once, did you?” she teased. “You know as well as I do that all skills as complicated as that take practice.” Strike found he didn’t mind the prospect of doing her hair again. He didn’t mind at all.


	2. A Midsummer's Day Dream

Most uncharacteristically, Robin felt she was on the verge of dozing at her desk. It was midsummer’s day, and the weather was playing along for once in its life. Robin was poring over a file on a particularly nasty petty thief, whose speciality was not only robbing immigrant shopkeepers but smashing the entire contents of their business to boot. One of these shops was just a few doors down in Denmark Street, where Strike bought his packets of Benson and Hedges. When he heard what had happened, he opened the case without charge, and began interviewing the owners.

Robin was determined to find the connection between the apparently random break-ins and bring the bastard to book: he was everything that was wrong with the world. But she had been staring at the same page for the last half hour, sweat dripping down the back of her neck, and she felt no closer to any lightbulb moments. She was also waiting for some of their sources to ring her back, so she felt stuck and useless. She leant back in her chair and sighed.

Strike looked up from his own work at the sound, and regarded her. On a day like this, he wanted nothing more than to be strolling in a park somewhere, Robin by his side. He decided he couldn’t resist any longer. “Cheer up, Ellacot, we’re going for a walk,” he said, swinging himself to his feet. He could feel his shirt sticking to his back, and wished he was the kind of man who felt comfortable wearing a vest to work.  
“I’ve got a criminal to catch, you know!” said Robin, a little more testily than she meant to. She was embarrassed that he caught her getting frustrated with the work.   
“The real criminal thing would be to stay indoors in this weather!” said Strike, undeterred and amused by her tone. “We’ve been on the case for days now, an hour or two rest won’t make any difference. Allow yourself a little joy!”  
She smiled, and relented. “All right. But don’t start on me about staying late at the office if you propose breaks this often!”  
He promised he wouldn’t, and they left the office together.

It was wonderful to be out in the warm, fragrant air. The streets seemed to be full of couples, arms around one another. In amongst them were mothers pushing babies in prams, fathers with slightly older children on their shoulders, and groups of school children, laughing uproariously, delighted by the sunshine and clear sky. It was infectious. Strike and Robin headed towards St James Park to find a bit of lawn to stretch out on. It was a bit of a walk, but that was the point, wasn’t it? Besides, thought both Robin and Strike privately, Strike could do with the exercise. They could always take the bus back if they had to.

When they arrived, they found an unoccupied patch and flopped down. Robin found herself wishing they’d brought a picnic blanket before remembering that, for once, the grass was perfectly dry. Before long, Robin had succumbed to the lazy afternoon feeling and and lain down, her strawberry blonde hair spread out against the green. She shielded her face so she could regard Strike. He was sitting up, busy lighting a cigarette, and telling her a story about what he and Shanker had got up to in parks in their youth, making her throw her head back in mirth. He looked at the white column of her throat, and looked away quickly. He thought her laughter might be his favourite sound of all time. Never mind the sound of birds or the gentle rustling of the trees or the tinny noise of a lighter grating into life: this, this was what he wanted. 

They sat like that for some time, telling stories and teasing one another, until Robin declared she was simply too hot and they’d have to move into the shade. Strike hauled himself up and offered to buy her a Cornetto, instead. They walked along the pathways with nothing in mind but the prospect of ice cream, and the pleasure of looking at the swans. For the first time since her wedding, Robin saw them as nothing more portentous than sinuous birds floating in cool water on a warm day.


End file.
